


Remember Me As A Time of Day

by intrepidheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Character Death, Choking, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Jealous Dean, M/M, Sibling Incest, Strippers, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-13 00:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4500321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intrepidheart/pseuds/intrepidheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is sure of many things in this world – many, many things – and the realization that he is in love with his brother has just become one of those things, and it's okay. Dean looks back at Sam and he smiles and it's brighter than any light in the sky because Dean is Sam's sun, the center of his universe, the reason he moves, breathes, lives, and for now, it's okay. </p><p>In seven days, Sam is going to have a black hole swallowing his chest, but for now, it's okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember Me As A Time of Day

**Author's Note:**

> Dean sold his soul to save Sam. He has a week left. Sam's not handling it very well.

**Seven days**

Not enough time.

That's all Sam can see in the dawn, in the break of the sun over the clouds, in the pinks and blues and purples brushing the canvas of the sky through the windshield. Not enough time to sit and listen to the hum of tires over the asphalt artery curving into the lungs of the country. The lungs that sit to Sam's left have a limited number of breaths, he can hear them now, rising and falling as solidly as they always have, the one thing Sam can rely on most in this cursed life besides his brother's heartbeat, funny how everything Sam believes in is a part of his brother, and soon they're going to stop. They're going to fall silent. No need to pull in oxygen when Dean will have fire and tar down his throat, no need to beat when there is no more blood left to pump.

There's not enough time.

Sunlight breaks over the line of the horizon, deep orange spilling open like a fallen paint can, the dawn of a new day. It's silent for once in the car, windows up, two hearts beating, two lungs breathing, one's going to stop soon, don't think about it, it's all he can think about. Sam looks at his brother.

Dean's always been beautiful, takes Sam's goddamn breath away how beautiful Dean is, should have been painted on the curved dome of the Sistine Chapel, how long does it take to get to Italy, Sam's gonna fly there and do it himself. In this light, pinks cutting across the bridge of his nose, the last traces of navy and purple edging past his temple, yellow kissing his throat, he's more than a work of art. He's a masterpiece.

Sam is sure of many things in this world – many, many things – and the realization that he is in love with his brother has just become one of those things, and it's okay. Dean looks back at Sam and he smiles and it's brighter than any light in the sky because Dean is Sam's sun, the center of his universe, the reason he moves, breathes, lives, and for now, it's okay.

In seven days, Sam is going to have a black hole swallowing his chest, but for now, it's okay.

Dean wants to find Lilith. Sam tells him to eat shit.

"Are you kidding me, Sam?"

An hour past sunrise and Dean's finally relinquishing the highway for the nearest motel parking lot. Neither of them have slept for who knows how long, both trying just as hard as the other to visually memorize every last inch of their brother's face, arms, hands, hair, fingers, legs. Seven days left and Sam finds a freckle on Dean's right earlobe that he's never noticed before.

Shoving the door open, Sam tosses his bag next to the bed furthest in the room because Dean takes the one by the door, always has, always will. Always wasn't supposed to be seven more days.

"No, Dean, I'm not kidding you. That's not how this is gonna work."

The door slams shut so hard that Sam's bones rattle with it. He turns to find Dean striding towards him, bloodshot eyes narrowed to near slits.

"Who died and put you in charge?" Dean snaps. "It sure as hell wasn't me, 'cause I still got a week left. We're doing this, Sam, while we still can."

"That's right, Dean! One week! Seven more days until you're dragged off to Hell and I'm not gonna spend them chasing around this bitch until you draw your last breath!"

Dean cusses, turning away from Sam to pace at the end of his bed, one hand scrubbing viciously at the back of his neck before he whirls and shoves Sam's shoulders. Sam stumbles backwards, regains his footing, punches Dean in the cheek, knuckles burning. He sees stars when his lower jaw takes Dean's right hook and then his hands are in the collar of Dean's shirt, forcing him down onto Sam's bed. Dean's knee hits the small of Sam's back, knocking him forward into Dean's fingers which fist in his hair and pull hard. Sam can't feel the pain, even as Dean drops one hand to jab three punches into his ribs, because Dean's breath is on his face, hot and harsh and grunting from Sam's weight and he wants to taste it, just once, seven days.

Sam jerks forward and their mouths meet. The first thing he tastes is blood, sharp and coppery on the tip of his tongue, his own where his split lip has broken even more from the force of the kiss. He swallows and it's gone, so he angles his head more, presses in more, opens up more and his heart sings high and loud in his throat when Dean's mouth opens with him. Then there's no way Sam can taste anything other than Dean, something so rich filling his palette that a gasp escapes him, what is that, he's never had anything like this before, it's the only thing he wants in his mouth for the rest of his life, Jesus, _Dean_.

His brother's fingers tighten in his hair, electricity shivering down Sam's scalp but he ignores it to focus on the way it feels when he drags his tongue along the backs of Dean's teeth, imagining each curve as he runs over them, just needing every inch of Dean's mouth to be memorized, to be filed away in the back of his mind because this, this is everything.

Dean pulls at Sam's hair again, strong enough that his lips have to break away from Dean's. They're both panting and when Sam opens his eyes, he finds Dean's are still closed.

"Sammy–"

Sam surges forward despite Dean's death grip on his head, needing his brother back on his tongue, but Dean's hands have moved to his cheeks, and his thumbs, pressed flat on Sam's lips, stop him.

"Please," Sam says, his breaths pumping harshly out of his parted mouth, air breaking past the edges of the soft pads of skin holding him back. "Dean, please."

Sooty eyelashes flutter open to reveal pools of black laced with an outer ring of green and Sam wants to swim in them. Sam wants to drown in them.

When he leans down again, Dean's thumbs fall away. Sam wonders if this is the beginning of the end.

 

**Six days**

They visit Bobby, only a few hours drive from where they were staying. Voice thick with worry and memories, probably choking him half as much as Sam's are, and a beer in hand for each of them. It's good to have Bobby.

Except he's in the same mindset as Dean, wanting to track down Lilith, there are people dyin' out there, Sam, yeah, Bobby, and his brother is dying right here, which do you think Sam gives a shit about? It makes Sam want to punch a hole in the drywall so he walks it off outside in the lot, weaving in and out of the broken cars rusting in the dirt.

It's early morning, birds chirping back and forth, too happy and bright amidst the dark chaos churning in Sam's heart and soul, so he digs his nails in the ground at his feet and starts throwing rocks at every car around him, the stones clattering noisily off glass and bent metal. It's enough to scare the birds away, Sam catching the faint beating of wings echoing in his ears, or maybe that's the sound of his heart when he sees Dean turning the corner.

"Are you done being a drama queen?"

Sam picks up a particularly large rock and whips it at his brother's head. Dean ducks and it lands in the corner of the windshield of an old Volvo. The glass crunches and an array of cracks spread like a fan from the point of impact, thin as hairs, almost delicate in the way it breaks. Reminds Sam of his heart. Six days.

"I guess not."

"Fuck you, Dean."

"Sam–" He's using that tone, the one where he's tired of Sam acting like he's a two year old, no, _fuck_ you, Dean, you want to waste the last hundred and forty hours of your life tracking down the one thing that could take you out in the blink of an eye, you want to kick the chair out from underneath you when you're already hanging on to minutes and seconds that are swirling down the hourglass in a draining spiral, fucking _idiot_ , Dean, fuck you.

Sam turns his back on his brother and cuts between a charred front half of a truck cab and a rusting Buick to get farther into Bobby's salvage yard and away from Dean. If he tries to talk to Sam right now, then Sam's gonna find something a lot bigger than a rock to throw next time. He can hear Dean's boots crunching in the dirt, following him, and it sets his teeth on edge, makes him want to break things, the window to his left, his own hand, Dean's legs so he can't walk down into the yawning black pit of choking ash and dust.

"How could you do it, Dean?" Sam spins around and shoves his brother, who had been only a few feet behind him, back until his shoulders meet the side of the Buick. It's the hundredth, thousandth time Sam's asked this question but he still doesn't understand, Dean, how could you take one year, how could you piss away your life for Sam when all he's ever done is pollute the world with his unclean blood, when everyone they've ever loved has died on the ceiling engulfed in flames or on bleached hospital floors? There's no good in Sam, none worth saving, and now you've gone and taken yourself out of the equation, taking out the other half to Sam's whole, and he's alive now but there's not going to be a fucking _point_ once you're gone, the world can go fuck itself and end because Sam doesn't care if Dean isn't at his side.

Sam blinks harshly and finds his hands in Dean's shirt, not angry but defeated, loose in the way they just slide down the front of Dean's chest, pawing at the worn material. Dean's fingers circle around his wrists, holding him still. Sam can't meet his brother's eyes.

"Would you have done it for me?" Dean asks, his voice low and sending shivers down Sam's spine. Sam tries to step away but Dean's grip is solid and strong and it holds him in place, forces Sam to look up and get lost in green flecked with gold. "Sam. Would you have done it for me?"

“Don’t do that to me,” Sam says, voice catching in his throat. “Don’t you do that to me, Dean.”

“Sam,” Dean tightens his hands, palms burning into the soft skin of Sam’s wrist, burning, burning, burning, hellfire and smoke and ash and six days. Sam’s going to lose his mind. “Sammy, you gotta stop.”

“I can’t.”

“Fuck you, yes you can.”

Sam’s breathing harshly through his nose, looking down at his big brother, looking down at his world stitched into leather and a loop of black twine and a brass amulet. He doesn’t want to look down anymore, so he drops to his knees, pulls his hands from Dean’s grip. Dean’s making a noise, metal creaking as he presses his body into the car, bowing away from Sam, but Sam’s fingers are in Dean’s belt loops, his nose is brushing down Dean’s stomach, he’s asking for this with his mouth on Dean’s thigh and his legs in the dirt, and Dean says yes with his hands in Sam’s hair and a gasp on his lips. Sam feels the heat of the morning sun on the line of his shoulders and forgets about six days.

When they walk back into Bobby’s house, they find him making grilled cheese with his cap pulled low. Dean grabs a beer from the fridge, throws the cap on the counter and drinks it on his way to the couch in the living room. Sam gets one too and stops, watching Bobby swirl the pan on the stovetop element. So that scuffing noise Sam had heard between Dean’s breath hitching hadn’t been a rodent in the yard. Sam waits, the minutes dragging on, until Bobby finally lifts his face to meet Sam’s stare.

“What’re you lookin’ at me like that for?” Bobby grunts, shuffling to dump the second grilled cheese onto a plate on the counter before adding more butter to the pan, the loud sizzling breaking the tension in the air.

“Like what?” says Sam.

“Like you got caught with one paw in the chicken coop. Go sit with your brother, your gourmet meal is on its way.”

So Sam goes and sits with his brother. It’s good to have Bobby.

 

**Five days**

They’ve been driving for twenty hours straight, left Bobby’s at noon yesterday, switched seats at each state line. When Sam had said this was where they needed to go, Dean sort of got this stupid look on his face and had to clear his throat a few times before he picked up the keys, gave Bobby a hug that lasted, and got behind the wheel. It's a big haul, getting down south, but for once Sam doesn't stress over the minutes ticking by because he has his house beneath him and his home beside him and they both sold their souls to their love of the highway long ago.

The air is stifling in Arizona, suffocating them with dry heat that leaks from the midday sun. Dean's leather jacket is in the backseat, discarded long ago, and his black tshirt has a loop of sweat clinging to the collar and at the nape of his neck. Sam's driving but he looks at his brother more than the road, how his nose is arrow straight, the way he rubs his fingers over his knee when he stares out the window before they lift to tug at the amulet sitting heavy below his collarbone.

"You know you're gonna run us into a ditch if you keep looking at me like that, and then I'm going to have to kill you for wrecking my car. _Then_ I'm gonna be pissed because I sold my soul for you, so where's that gonna leave me?"

"With my fist in your mouth if you don't shut the fuck up."

"Touché, Sammy."

A sign passes by amidst the desert wasteland and Sam takes the next exit, following the road until it brings them to their destination. The sun is at its zenith and so is Sam's heart, up high in his throat as they step out of the car and walk to the edge of the earth.

The Grand Canyon spreads before them in an overwhelming expanse of rust red rock, shale, limestone and striped clay, gouging into the planet to leave behind rivers and rocks that stretch into the horizon. There is nothing Sam can say when he faces the canyon, words lost in the jumble of his mind as he is humbled into silence.

He can feel Dean at his side, shoulder brushing his. Something curls deep in his stomach and he sucks in a breath, sees his brother's eyes on him so he turns to meet them. Dean is staring at Sam and Sam is staring at Dean and something tells him that Dean hasn't been looking at anything other than Sam since they stepped out of the car.

Sam lifts his arm closest to his brother, takes the amulet rising and falling on Dean's chest between his fingers and tugs. When their lips touch, it's as dry as the land around them, when their tongues meet, it's an oasis from the heat, and when Dean's hand rests over Sam's heart, Sam can taste salt as it slips between their mouths. He doesn't know if the tears are his.

They only leave to get food, and even then, it's to go. They park away from the crowd to have their lunch on the hood of the Impala, black metal scalding the backs of their legs through the denim, but Sam can't feel it because Dean is knocking their knees together. The only heat that matters is the one emanating from Dean's palm on the back of Sam's head and the push of fingertips into the sweat-damp hair brushing the curve of Sam's ear. When Dean's hand nudges Sam towards him, he closes his eyes. The fire that sparks between their lips is gentle, but Sam can't stop wondering if it scares Dean and that's why his brother won't stop shaking.

 

**Four days**

It's neon signs and flashing lights that read _Las Vegas_ by the next afternoon, and Sam's making himself be okay with it because Dean's finally shut up about Lilith, he's finally just letting the road take him and his brother away from the one danger they can control, the one that isn't going to come in the form of baying hounds, so Sam's okay with it, even if it includes strippers.

And it does, evidently, because it's two in the afternoon and Dean is Dean and he's pulling into a parking lot of a strip club that apparently is open twenty four seven and Sam forces a smile on his face because if it's gonna make Dean happy, well.

"C'mon, Sammy, don't be a prude!" Dean crows, stretching his arms over his head as he walks towards the front door. "The whole point is to enjoy it! Live a little!"

Sam can't live a little because Dean has only a little to live and maybe that makes him selfish for wanting Dean to himself, four days, Jesus _Christ_ , but Sam can fake it, it's gonna make Dean happy, so fake it.

They're beautiful, the girls, and the beer tastes good going down the back of Sam's throat, cool and soothing, and Sam can't keep his eyes off of Dean. He's front and center at the main platform, facing the pole which has a cocoa skinned woman slowly spinning around the metal before dipping down to drag a finger under Dean's chin. He almost looks like a child, glee pouring out of his smile and wide, shiny eyes as he watches the stripper turn tricks. Sam takes another swig of his beer.

A smooth, tan belly fills Sam's line of vision and he follows it up to the smiling face of a brunette with long straight hair. She's pretty, exotic looking with the almond shape of her brown eyes, which he can really see now that she is straddling him and dragging her nails down his chest. The blinding colored lights flash across the fullness of her chest and the length of her arms in circles of pink, blue, red.

"Hi," she says over the thumping bass of the music that is making his shoulders instinctively twitch every once in a while with the beats. She has a slight accent, a lilt on her vowels.

"Hi," Sam calls back even though she's right the fuck there, a sultry roll of her hips reminding him that this isn't just a friendly conversation. She grins down at him, tosses her hair over her shoulder as her gaze follows her fingers hooking in the collar of his shirt. Sam tightens his own around the neck of his beer bottle. He knows the rules, won't touch even though every fibre in his body is whispering to close his palms over the curve of her thighs.

"Feeling lucky tonight, baby?" Her lips are skimming his ear and he can feel her pressing against his chest. "Want a private dance, just you and me?"

Sam's eyes trail across the backs of the heads of other patrons seated in the rows ahead and catch on his brother staring at him. Dean's half turned in his stool, one hand gripping a wad of bills and the other tapping on his knee as he watches the girl on Sam's lap grind down again and again. The heat in Sam's blood flows south under Dean's gaze and he hears the girl giggle, her tongue flicking out to catch his earlobe. His entire body trembles at that and he can't help but let his eyes close at the sensation.

"C'mon, baby, let me give you a show." The girl stands and pulls Sam up with her by the front of his shirt, practically dragging him behind her like a dog on a leash. They're nearing the base of a staircase in the dark corner of the floor, away from the bar and the stage, when Sam feels a hand on his wrist. Dean's there, decidedly not gawking at the now entirely naked stripper onstage. Instead, he is gripping Sam hard enough to bruise.

"Excuse me, sweetheart, I need to borrow my boy here for a second," Dean says, smiling his Dean-smile at Sam's new friend. "I'll get him right back to you, promise."

The girl shrugs, lets Sam go with a wink and a pinch on the butt, and Sam finds himself hustled into the dimly lit men's bathroom a few feet away. When the door closes behind them, effectively muffling the thumping music, Sam tries to shake his brother off but his attempts are cut short when Dean kicks a stall open and shoves Sam down onto the seat of the toilet.

"Dean, what–"

"Shut up, Sam." Dean's voice is rough and hard as he locks the door, and when his teeth clip Sam's bottom lip in the kiss he dive bombs into Sam's face, Sam very nearly keels over. It's Dean climbing into his lap now, hands all over Sam's cheeks and in his hair and dragging down his chin as he practically mauls Sam's mouth with his. He keeps pulling away to suck in a breath and Sam thinks he hears him say something but then Dean moves in to kiss him again and his thoughts are spilling out of his ears like literary waterfalls.

Sam does touch now, because it's Dean, so he sneaks his hands up under Dean's shirt to slot his fingers into the dips between each rib, feeling every shallow breath that expands and contracts the lungs that keep his brother alive. He can feel the goosebumps raising under the pads of his fingers and he tightens his hold, pulling down so Dean sits and Sam can completely feel his brother against him.

"Dean–" Sam tries again when Dean's pulled away. "What are you doing, we did this for you, thought you wanted this–"

"You, Sam," Dean pants back into his mouth, forehead tight against Sam's. "Christ, Sammy, all I want is you."

The space between their lips disappears as Sam surges forward, gets that taste back in his mouth, the way his brother's tongue feels against his own etching itself into his tastebuds and mind and soul. Dean braces his hands on Sam's shoulders and a groan works out of both of them when he shifts down, and that's how they work, both moving in tandem like they have their entire lives, two parts of a whole, breathing each other's air, knowing each other's next move just like on a hunt.

It's different now, they know it's different, how could it not be, but God, does it feel right, Dean's lips on Sam's temple murmuring praises, so good to me, Sammy, and Sam's mouth heating the line of Dean's neck, his own blank slate to mark up, mine, mine, mine. Sam's losing his rhythm, losing his entire mind at everything rushing and singing through him at this moment, can't pull in enough air, can't breathe now that Dean's in his ear, c'mon Sammy, for me, do it for me, and he's done, bucking forward into his brother with little gasps, white hot sparks shivering through every inch of his body. Dean takes his face, pulls him into an open-mouthed kiss as he lets his own groans slide down Sam's throat and Sam drinks them all down to pool with that warm feeling low in his chest.

When Dean collapses forward onto Sam's chest, lips skimming the top of his shoulder, Sam holds on tight. Pushing one hand up the line of Dean's spine, Sam settles his hand over the spot where he can feel Dean's heart pounding. He closes his eyes, rests his forehead on Dean's neck and just listens. Their hearts are thrumming in time. He makes them disentangle themselves when each heartbeat starts to sound like _fourdaysfourdaysfourdays_.

Dean doesn't keep his promise. Instead, he drags Sam out of the backdoor of the strip club and pushes him up against the brick wall of the building outside to get his mouth on Sam’s neck. Sam thinks about the other promise Dean has broken, the one where he said that nothing bad will ever happen to Sam, because his worst nightmare is coming true and it’s being alone in this world without his heart and home.

 

**Three days**

Dean makes them stop in Winchester, Nevada because Dean is Dean. He pulls into the nearest gas station and buys a disposable camera, then drives them to the sign that welcomes all travellers into the town. Pulling over onto the gravel shoulder, he gets out, plants his feet wide, throws on the cheesiest grin he can muster and takes a picture of himself with the sign in the background. He makes Sam get out and take one with him. Sam knows that Dean's the only one smiling in that photo.

When Dean is rifling around in the trunk for a certain cassette he wants to listen to on their drive to California, Sam surreptitiously empties the contents of his stomach into the dry grass by his feet. He can't eat after that.

Dean keeps turning to take pictures of Sam during the drive until Sam wrestles it from him and winds the wheel to get it ready for the next photo. He takes subtle pictures of Dean’s profile, a shot of just Dean’s hand resting on the wheel, leans forward to capture the amulet on the swell of Dean’s grey-shirted chest. He uses the last picture on a photo of his pinky finger hooked over Dean’s, lying on the leather seat between them.

It's early evening by the time Dean puts the Impala in park at the beach just outside of Santa Maria. The air is starting to cool off but is still warm enough to leave Sam's shirt sticking to his skin.

"Ocean, Sammy."

Sam turns and watches his brother's profile gaze out at the rolling waves reaching up on the wet sands of the shore. Dean's leaning back against the front grill of the car, arms crossed loosely over his chest, something thoughtful in the way he squints into the setting sun. The way the light catches the angles of his face reminds Sam of that one sunrise while they were cutting across country. He swallows back tears.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam joins his brother, leans back against the black hood. The engine is ticking softly in the background of crashing waves and seagulls cawing further down the beach. "Ocean."

They kick off their boots and walk across warm sand towards a dock that stretches out into the dark part of the water, probably used as a fishing place for old guys to sit on buckets and wave poles around as if that's gonna get them any bites, Dean says. At the end of the dock are two chairs with the legs nailed into the wood so they don't get blown away, and it's obviously meant for them, so they sit and face the horizon.

There are soft grey clouds piling below the sun as it dips down, hiding it from the encroaching night. The water laps at the dock, slapping noises filling Sam's ears as it hits the thick posts suspending him and his brother above its surface. He wants to drown in it, wants the waves to pull him under and fill his lungs and eyes and drag him into the depths instead of letting him watch this dusk approach. Because this is the ending of another day, this is the sun setting on one of the final handful of hours Dean has left to breathe and it isn't fair, none of it is, why was Dean so fucking stupid?

"You look like you want to punch me."

"Thinking about it."

"We're sitting here watching a fucking sunset, what else do you want from me? I'm not holding your fucking hand."

Sam makes Dean hold his hand.

They're still holding hands when they jump in the water, fully clothed. They break the surface gasping and whooping at the cold before Dean's shoving down on the top of Sam's head and he's swallowing salt. They fall back into the pattern long past of trying to dunk the other, just like that time they stayed near a lake in Wisconsin when Dad was hunting a kitsune with Bobby and had left them a cabin all to themselves. Eventually, they’re both coughing and laughing too hard to keep going, so they let themselves float just under the lip of the dock, away from the public eye. Dean presses his back against one of the pillars supporting the planks above their heads and treads lazily, his eyes scouring the horizon for an answer Sam wishes it would give.

The sky is starting to turn navy now, the sun finally shifting below the line of the ocean that they have to strain to see, and Sam doesn’t want to look anymore. He drifts in front of Dean, finds his face in the growing dark and lets his eyes find the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his brother’s nose and cheeks, lifts a dripping hand to trace it. Dean’s eyelids flutter shut and they stay like that, bodies shivering in the cold water but hearts warm because they’re together, it’s not much, but they’re here, legs bumping with each roll of the waves, and it’s enough, it’s got to be enough for now. It just doesn’t make it any easier.

 

**Two days**

Dean wants the beach so Sam gives him the beach. The entire day is spent on cheap towels bought from a tacky gift shop just down the road from their motel, drinking beer out of a cooler bought from the gas station, and applying layer after layer of sunscreen on Dean’s shoulders and nose so he doesn’t get sunburned. As if his skin isn’t going to blister and peel and melt from his bones after he’s dragged down into the pit in two days’ time. But Sam doesn’t think about that when he’s swiping the white lotion down his brother’s back. Not at all.

They’re back in the motel when the stars come out. Nights are always the hardest for them. They can’t sleep anymore, not for long, and this past week, they have always ended up sitting on the hood of the Impala wherever they are, the motel parking lot, on a blanket on the hard ground near the lip of the canyon, just letting their heads fall back to watch the sky. It’s always been their refuge, the stars, a way to feel that they really aren’t alone in this universe despite how much it seems like they are. Now it just makes Sam sick to his stomach, the pit in his chest as dark as the spaces between the shimmering lights overhead, because this is it. This time he really will be alone, all that’s left of his name. Sam doesn’t know how long he’s going to last once Dean is gone.

Dean wants to go outside and stargaze on his second to last night on earth, and for the first time, Sam refuses. He pulls Dean down onto his bed instead, funny how they keep getting two queens when every night Dean lets Sam curl around his back. Getting two beds is just a habit, Sam’s going to get two beds for the rest of his life, however long that life is, can’t stop thinking about it, two days.

His breathing is high and tight in his chest and he might be shaking as he pushes Dean onto his back but his brother doesn’t say anything, just lets Sam’s hands follow the curves of the muscles in his arms through the material of his shirt, over his chest, across his stomach, past his thighs. Sam memorizes Dean’s body with the pads of his fingertips, rolling over the valleys of his hipbones and the hills of his cheeks, etching his brother into the grooves of his fingerprints.

Dean tangles his hands in Sam's hair, draws him up the length of his body to seal their mouths together, to give and take a breath, to try to calm the pounding in Sam's chest, his veins, his bones. It just makes it worse, to have Dean touching him, because if Dean hadn't said yes, if they had pretended that this current that has thrummed between them their entire lives was as substantial as air, maybe Sam could have pushed through for at least a year, maybe two, after Dean was gone. But now he knows Dean's mouth and the feel of his palms and the curve of his spine, now Sam knows that every draw of oxygen into his lungs will be like sucking in smoke, burning him from the inside out with the loss of his brother, Christ, he's not even going to make it twenty four hours.

There's something about the way Dean flips them, about the way he heats Sam's side with the front of his body, the way his mouth whispers secrets and sins into the hollow of Sam's collarbone that cuts a string in Sam's mind, and that string unravels the tangled thoughts in his head, lets them spill down his spine and into his arms until he can wrap his fingers around Dean's that are tracing the line of his throat and press down. Dean leaves his hand open and loose, his muscles jumping as he tries to pull away, but Sam silently pleads with his eyes, keeps Dean where he is.

Dean's chest is rising and falling against Sam's right shoulder, panic making his breaths shallow, and Sam wants that too, wants to have to struggle to take in air, and he fits his palm over the back of Dean's hand and urges Dean's fingers to close around the column of his neck.

“Sam–” Dean whispers, tone edged with fear and reverence as his gaze focuses on their overlapping hands.

“Please, Dean.” Sam closes his eyes and arches his head back against the pillow, tightens his grip so Dean does too. Dean gets with the program, shifts so his right thigh is tucked between both of Sam’s and he’s supporting his weight on his forearm next to Sam’s head, the rest of his body draped in a hot blanket along Sam’s. Wet lips tuck into Sam’s temple and he can smell sunlight on his brother’s skin.

When Dean rolls his hips into Sam’s, he squeezes his fingers in time with the movement and Sam doesn’t need the night sky, he can see stars right here on the backs of his eyelids, a moan breaking from his lips. Dean makes a noise too, a sharp grunt as he does it again, rutting forward and clamping down on Sam’s airway. It’s not enough, Dean takes his breath away on a normal day but he needs Dean to suck every last ounce of oxygen out of his lungs with his fingers and his mouth, fucking _needs_ it, so he writhes up into his brother’s leg, curving his back so their chests seal together and says, “Harder.”

He doesn’t need to say it again after that. Dean rocks them together in a rhythm mimicking the waves they were in earlier that day, slow and steady and building something deep in Sam’s chest that isn’t a deprivation of air, but more of a foreshadowing of what his life will be like following the day after tomorrow. But for now he lets the spitting fireworks burst under his skin and make his head blur around the edges, his strangled gasps joining the pounding of his blood in his ears, faster than normal with the mix of panic-pleasure eating through his veins.

“Jesus, Sammy, seeing you like this–” Dean is panting hard into Sam’s cheek, lips hot and catching on the rise of his cheekbone. Sam whines in response, one hand clinging to Dean’s wrist on his neck and the other scrabbling at Dean’s back, rucking his shirt up when Sam clenches his fingers into a fist and pulls.

They stutter together, climb that rise together, and Dean finally chokes off Sam’s throat completely, just like he wants, his mouth open and body rising off the bed and into his brother as molten lava surges through him in pulses. Dean sobs Sam’s name into his ear and buries his face in Sam’s hair, releasing his fingers to pet at Sam’s face instead, riding through the residual aftershocks. Sam sucks in a huge breath, clean air expanding his lungs once again, and he finds that it hurts more than those seconds of dying at the hands of his brother ever did.

 

**One day**

In the final hours, they came together as one.

Sam doesn’t want to talk about it.

That day was theirs.

 

**11:00pm**

Dean’s been hearing howls for hours now, screamed from the hallucinations when Sam turned to him after putting a ring of goofer dust around Dean’s feet in a pathetic attempt to buy them more time. Sam knows that the sand in their hourglass has run out.

 

**11:21pm**

Dean’s sitting in the circle, arms wrapped around Sam, an unintelligible stream of apologies and demands curling into one of Sam’s ears and out the other, but he tries to listen, he promises Dean anyway, yeah, man, I’ll take care of the Impala, I know how to change the oil, I remember where you keep the windshield wiper fluid, no, I’m not ordering a stripper tomorrow, Dean, fuck you, shut up, shut up, shut up.

 

**11:37pm**

Sam can’t feel his lips, they’re numb and shaking and broken against Dean’s, can’t stop pulling sounds and gasps out of his brother, selfish, he’s so goddamn selfish, taking some of Dean’s final breaths when he’s drawing his last in twenty three minutes, but he needs them, needs them swirling in his lungs that are clamping down like vices, restricting Sam’s ability to think, to function, to focus on anything but the man trembling under his fingers. So Sam holds Dean’s face between his palms, kisses him again, lies and says it’s going to be okay. A part of Sam thinks that Dean believes him.

 

**11:54pm**

Claws tearing down the wood of the motel door, shuddering from impacts, threatening to break, Sam’s not going to let them take his brother, he can’t, he won’t, not Dean, why them, why is it always them.

 

**11:59pm**

“Everything, Sammy, you’re everything.”

 

**12:01am**

Sam can’t stop rocking back and forth, can’t stop cradling his brother against his chest, his body still warm, his blood hot on Sam’s fingers, painting him red, Sam wonders if it’s ever going to wash off, doesn’t want it to, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, if he closes his eyes he can pretend it’s Dean’s hand on his throat instead of his own, wishes his lungs would give out, wishes the heart in his chest would stop beating because the one in his arms already has.

Everything. Sam’s lost everything.

 


End file.
